Previous story: Breakfast
Christmas
Photographer unknown
Pops leaned over to get a better look at the fat man sprawled across the pavement. The man’s slack face was turned toward the brick wall. A line of vomit had dribbled out of his mouth and down his cheek, pooling in the shadow beneath his head. Pops nudged the thick body with his foot. The fat man snorted a little, shifted, and went back to sleep. Well, he wasn’t dead anyway.
He hadn't been on the streets long, that much was clear. He was too fat and his skin glowed with the night's sweat. He stank of recent adventures rather than the accumulation of weeks, a fruity smell rather than sour piss and garbage. And he was splayed across the pavement as if he had gotten drunk in one place and collapsed halfway to his destination, rather than curling up in a favorite, hidden place and drinking himself quietly to sleep. The miracle was that the cops hadn’t rousted him in the night.
Fat man's clothes told the same story. His yellow t-shirt was smeared with stains new enough that each fingerprint was still evident. White patches on his overwashed jeans were still white. His dark blue Dodgers cap had fallen from his head, but the brim was stiff and held its shape.
Absolute proof was the fat man’s shitkickers. Smooth, supple brown leather, no cracks or scuffs. Pops could almost hear the click of the short walking heels on concrete. These were the kind of boots a man might be killed for. The kind of boots a desperate man would swap one night for a cheap bottle of booze.
Pops nudged him again, a little harder this time, pressing a foot into his ribcage. Fat man mumbled, but didn't move. Pops circled his body, then looked up and down the street. It was early and they were on a side street off Brand, but it had to be the weekend or a holiday for there to be so few people. Maybe it was Christmas. In the distance, Pops could make out flashing red lights. Season's greetings, or just a traffic signal? They were too far away and Pop's eyes were too far gone to tell.
Everyone else might have forgotten him, but Christmas had come to Pops.
He hadn't been on the streets long, that much was clear. He was too fat and his skin glowed with the night's sweat. He stank of recent adventures rather than the accumulation of weeks, a fruity smell rather than sour piss and garbage. And he was splayed across the pavement as if he had gotten drunk in one place and collapsed halfway to his destination, rather than curling up in a favorite, hidden place and drinking himself quietly to sleep. The miracle was that the cops hadn’t rousted him in the night.
Fat man's clothes told the same story. His yellow t-shirt was smeared with stains new enough that each fingerprint was still evident. White patches on his overwashed jeans were still white. His dark blue Dodgers cap had fallen from his head, but the brim was stiff and held its shape.
Absolute proof was the fat man’s shitkickers. Smooth, supple brown leather, no cracks or scuffs. Pops could almost hear the click of the short walking heels on concrete. These were the kind of boots a man might be killed for. The kind of boots a desperate man would swap one night for a cheap bottle of booze.
Pops nudged him again, a little harder this time, pressing a foot into his ribcage. Fat man mumbled, but didn't move. Pops circled his body, then looked up and down the street. It was early and they were on a side street off Brand, but it had to be the weekend or a holiday for there to be so few people. Maybe it was Christmas. In the distance, Pops could make out flashing red lights. Season's greetings, or just a traffic signal? They were too far away and Pop's eyes were too far gone to tell.
Everyone else might have forgotten him, but Christmas had come to Pops.
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With the toe of his worn out tennis shoe, Pops shook the fat man’s right foot, then his left. Then he shook them more vigorously, one by one. Fat man muttered a little more loudly but no more coherently, never opening his eyes. Pops squatted down by his feet and took the right boot in his hands and shook it again, all the while watching the fat man's face. He was as unconscious as a man could be and still be alive without medical care.
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Pops shook and tugged the boots until they came loose. He placed them on the sidewalk beside him, careful not to make too much noise. Then Pops was ready to run find a good hiding place to change shoes.
But it was Christmas, after all, and no man should have to walk the streets of Los Angeles in sock feet on the day of Christ's own birth. Rather than do the wise thing, Pops sat down beside the fat man and slipped off his own, worn-down Nikes. Gray with age and use, they'd been white and blue and red once. He thought so, anyway. He hadn't walked out the door of his home with them, but he couldn’t remember when or where he'd gotten them. Maybe some other jackass had stolen a fine pair of crisp leather brogues off his own feet one night. It seemed likely.
It was Pops' turn now.
He slipped his feet into boots that were still warm from the fat man's feet. His bones ached with the effort of getting himself up from the sidewalk. Pops stood a little taller in these new boots, felt a little more the man he'd once been. They were a little tight on his feet, but a man couldn’t expect perfection in a day. Raising his head and straightening his back, he surveyed his domain and found it good. The sun was fully risen now, and its warmth cut through the cool air to hold Pops upright. He had been a man once, and could be again.
It being Christmas, one of the churches was bound to be serving turkey and potatoes, maybe even cranberry sauce and pie. The other men would be given to sharing from bottles and cans in the bathrooms and alleys. The nearest he could remember was a Methodist church.
Suddenly, fat man shifted. "Dude," he croaked.
Pops didn't look down.
"Ayúdame…" the fat man began, but trailed off.
Pops ran. The boots were his, fair and square. Involuntary recycling, street style. Fat man had to learn about it the hard way.
The fat man put his hands on the sidewalk and tried to press himself up, but couldn't. He should never have left home last night without checking his blood sugar level. He fell back to the pavement and lost consciousness again.
But it was Christmas, after all, and no man should have to walk the streets of Los Angeles in sock feet on the day of Christ's own birth. Rather than do the wise thing, Pops sat down beside the fat man and slipped off his own, worn-down Nikes. Gray with age and use, they'd been white and blue and red once. He thought so, anyway. He hadn't walked out the door of his home with them, but he couldn’t remember when or where he'd gotten them. Maybe some other jackass had stolen a fine pair of crisp leather brogues off his own feet one night. It seemed likely.
It was Pops' turn now.
He slipped his feet into boots that were still warm from the fat man's feet. His bones ached with the effort of getting himself up from the sidewalk. Pops stood a little taller in these new boots, felt a little more the man he'd once been. They were a little tight on his feet, but a man couldn’t expect perfection in a day. Raising his head and straightening his back, he surveyed his domain and found it good. The sun was fully risen now, and its warmth cut through the cool air to hold Pops upright. He had been a man once, and could be again.
It being Christmas, one of the churches was bound to be serving turkey and potatoes, maybe even cranberry sauce and pie. The other men would be given to sharing from bottles and cans in the bathrooms and alleys. The nearest he could remember was a Methodist church.
Suddenly, fat man shifted. "Dude," he croaked.
Pops didn't look down.
"Ayúdame…" the fat man began, but trailed off.
Pops ran. The boots were his, fair and square. Involuntary recycling, street style. Fat man had to learn about it the hard way.
The fat man put his hands on the sidewalk and tried to press himself up, but couldn't. He should never have left home last night without checking his blood sugar level. He fell back to the pavement and lost consciousness again.
Photo by 'Achituv'
All the doors to the Methodist church were locked, with no sign of holiday meals. Same for the Baptists, Episcopalians, even the Unitarians. Must not be Christmas after all, Pops decided.
His feet hurt from all that walking, so he sat down on a low stoop in front of a nondenominational storefront iglesia and slipped his feet out of the boots. To Pops' surprise, his blackened socks were wet. He peeled one off. Blood. He peeled off the other. More blood. With some careful poking and prodding he found the source. The boots had worn the skin off his heels and sides of his feet, and the tops of both big toes.
Pops thought with regret about the comfortable tennis shoes he'd left behind. With a sigh, he put his socks on, stood up and walked away, leaving the boots to some other man with smaller feet.
His feet hurt from all that walking, so he sat down on a low stoop in front of a nondenominational storefront iglesia and slipped his feet out of the boots. To Pops' surprise, his blackened socks were wet. He peeled one off. Blood. He peeled off the other. More blood. With some careful poking and prodding he found the source. The boots had worn the skin off his heels and sides of his feet, and the tops of both big toes.
Pops thought with regret about the comfortable tennis shoes he'd left behind. With a sigh, he put his socks on, stood up and walked away, leaving the boots to some other man with smaller feet.